


Be Here With Me

by rycewritestrash



Series: If you're in love, then you are the lucky one. [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamy-centric, Bisexual Bellamy Blake, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death(s), Character Study, Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by To All The Boys I've Loved Before, M/M, POV Bellamy Blake, Protective Bellamy, Rating will change, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Teenage Drama, Unrequited Crush, but like TATBILB is only relevant if you squint real hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rycewritestrash/pseuds/rycewritestrash
Summary: “You know we’re friends right?”Yes. Of course he knows this. He reminds himself daily.“Well, yeah, but—”“There are not buts, Blake. I care about you. Your problems are mine.”“Clarke,” he sighs.“No,” she snaps, blocking his path, forcing him to look at her. As if he could ever look away with her blue eyes holding him in place, keeping everything centered. “You. Are. Not. Alone.” She pokes his chest with every word. “So stop acting like it!”He swallows hard, ducking his head before he does something incredibly stupid and inadvisable with her looking at him like that.“Okay,” he says, slow, biting his lip. “Together, then?”Her face softens and the corner of her lips turns up. “Together.”orA TATBILB inspired bellarke AU that has a sentient mind of its own.Title of story and chapters are lyrics fromBe Here With Meby Elina.*WARNINGS WILL BE POSTED IN THE END NOTES OF EACH CHAPTER.****TEMPORARY HIATUS WHILE T100 SEASON 6 IS AIRING***





	1. moment's here; moment's gone

**Author's Note:**

> So, I heard some people write a lot when they're depressed.
> 
> Yeah, I'm not one of those people.
> 
> But I figured I need to at least try to remind myself that this is something that I enjoy doing, even if I don't always feel it.
> 
> Things to keep in mind:
> 
> 1.) This story has a different tone than some of my other works. The humor is still there, but since I'm dealing with more serious issues in this story, it comes and goes.
> 
> Idk if my writing is changing, or it's just me, but the plot bunnies have taken the wheel and I'm just trying not to let them drive me off a cliff.
> 
> 2.) This is like a very, very light "To All The Boys I've Loved Before" fusion. You'll have to squint to catch it, honestly.
> 
> The only thing I'm really borrowing is the concept of the letters, those letters getting out, and the fake dating trope--but since I'm covering so much time before the letters get out, it won't be very apparent that this is TATBILB inspired tbh.
> 
> 3.) Also, please be aware this fic is very, very Bellamy focused. 
> 
> Note: Clarke doesn't make an appearance until the end of the first chapter.
> 
> Also Note: I will be going through all of Bellamy's crushes/relationships, which I personally think will be more impactful when he finds himself with Clarke, but if you don't like seeing these two characters in other relationships, you probably won't like this fic. 
> 
> Jsyk, there will be Clexa, Murphamy, and Becho story lines--and other relationships may occur as well. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *WARNINGS IN THE END NOTES*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING(S) IN THE END NOTES*

Bellamy Blake has his first heart break at age eight.

It happens slowly, like the crack on their living room ceiling, growing with each year that passes after Octavia is born—a soft bundle of peach colored skin and unfamiliar eyes squinting up at them.

Presently, she sits cross-legged in the middle of the trampoline, a messy fishtail braid (Bellamy’s handiwork _thank you very much_ ), unraveling on her shoulder, loose baby hairs framing her sweaty, round face.

He smiles, baring his teeth like predator and leaps as close to her as he can without crushing her beneath his feet. She squeals in delight and goes flying towards the sky, kicking her legs out from underneath of her and nearly kneeing him in the gut in the process.

“Watch it!” he barks, barely containing the grin on his face when she bounces back down on her butt, cackling at him and _beaming_.

“Again, again!”

It’s somewhere between the fourth and fifth jump that his stomach lurches at the sight of her falling just out of his reach. Even as he tries to grab on to her, he knows it’s already too late. He’s lost half a second before she hits the ground.

 *

They leave the hospital room with Octavia sporting a new royal blue cast from her wrist to her elbow and Bellamy’s cheeks red with shame.

He doesn’t know which time he apologizes before Octavia gets fed up and yanks him down to her height by the loose sleeve of his baggy t-shirt, smacking a sloppy kiss to his cheek and then kindly telling him to shut up or they’ll both be leaving there with broken bones. He wrinkles his nose at the threat and the feeling of her sticky candy lips from the sour apple lollypop the nurse handed her--per her request after they attempted to give her the _banana poop_ flavor and Octavia’s eyes swelled up with tears faster than they did only a few hours prior.

Just five years old and his baby sister might actually be scarier than he is.

He tells her just that, like it’s something to be proud of, but she only sighs and rolls her eyes.

“I’m not a baby, Bell-a-my!” She whines, stomping her feet and then plopping herself on the floor, demanding he draws a butterfly on her cast with the purple glitter glue she stole from the children’s waiting area while their parents were too busy signing paperwork at the front desk to pay attention to them.

He opens and closes his mouth, but ultimately decides it’s safer to agree with her.

Later, in the parking lot, Octavia grasps his hand after their mom slaps it away—a move that probably would’ve made Bellamy cry at her age, but she just puffs up her chest, sticks out her tongue out, and spits in the air.

He squeezes her palm and covers his snort with a cough.

There’s a tension on the car ride back that Bellamy mistakes for anger directed at his own carelessness for failing to protect his sister and the looming hospital bill hanging over their heads.

His father catches his eyes in the rear view mirror and there’s hollowness in them he doesn’t recognize.

That night, O falls asleep on his chest to his voice re-reading, _The Little Princess,_ for the hundredth time; his mother stumbles into the wall to make her presence known, as if it was at all possible to miss her swaying in the middle of the doorway, cradling a bottle of wine to her chest like an infant.

“Your sister, your responsibility,” she drawls, eyes sharp like knives cutting into his chest where his heart beats so erratically he fears Octavia might wake from the sound of it.

Two days later, Aurora is a single parent and Bellamy isn’t sure who to blame, _her_ for lying about who Octavia’s father was, or himself for being the reason they all found out.

*

It doesn’t occur to him to blame his dad, until he misses his birthday party and mails a crappy card with singing moose in his absence.  

A freaking moose.

Aurora pretends to not know his phone number when Bellamy asks, so he checks the return address on the envelope and rips a blank page out from one of his sister’s _Tinker Bell_ notebooks, ignoring her huffing at him to keep his _cooties_ off her prized possessions.

He locks himself in his bedroom and writes out every terrible feeling he’s had since the day he left. Admittedly, it probably would be a lot more impactful if it weren’t for the pink daisies and fairy dust decorating the edges of the paper, let alone the fat tear stains smearing the ink on the last line where his sloppy slanted script ends.

**_I blew out my birthday candles and wished I never loved you._ **

The following day, he sits at the tops of the staircase, clutching the letter to his chest.

 An hour after the mailman has come and goes; he buries it under his mattress and doesn’t bother arguing with his sister when she calls him a _hufflepuff_ for losing to her in a game of Candyland twice in a row.

*

The birthday cards stop after two years.

The unopened envelope is moved to a shoe box in the corner of his closet and the picture frames that used to hang down the hall disappear, the crisp white paint exposed where their smiling faces used to be, outlined with yellow, smoke stained walls.

*

Bellamy is thirteen when his sister runs away.

Aurora promised to take her and the neighbor girl down the street to the zoo to see the Christmas lights, and despite Bellamy’s best efforts to try to not get her not to get her hopes up, she is furious when they get off the bus from school and find her passed out in the recliner.

“She promised me.”

“I warned you not to listen, O,” Bellamy snaps, because he can’t deal with this and Aurora at the same time. She should’ve known better. “Mom, come on.” He jostles her shoulder, but she only groans and babbles incoherent nonsense. He grimaces at the thick smell of sweet wine coming off of her. She rolls over on her side and drools on the armrest.

_Great, mac and cheese dinners again tonight._

“This isn’t fair!” Octavia cries, kicking her shoes off and throwing them across the room and knocking over a lamp in her rage.

“Octavia, that’s enough,” Bellamy growls at her, moving away from his mother to clean up the mess. “You’re not doing us any favors by throwing a tantrum.”

“I don’t care! I _never_ get anything I want, ever! _Why?_ Why couldn’t she try just this one time?”

“Yeah, and I have it so freaking easy, right?

“At least you have _friends_!”

“What the hell are you talking about? You have—”

“I have _a_ friend, Bell— _one._ People at school are only nice to me because _you_ say you’re going to beat all of them up if they _blink_ at me the wrong way. No one _likes_ me _;_ they’re just scared of you! And now even Charlotte is going to hate me and I can’t—”

He rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to hate you.”

“I pinky promised her!” She screams and chucks a pillow at his head.

He smacks it away, seething. “Sometimes life gets in the way of our promises, Octavia! We don’t always get to do what we said we would.”

“Dad never broke a promise,” she whispers darkly, glaring at them both.

Bellamy scowls. She was barely old enough to even remember. “Sure, right up until the day he disappeared.”

“That’s her fault!” she screams, rounding back up on him. “He left her, not us.”

“He left _you_!” he shouts and immediately wants to go back in time and shove the words down his throat, but the damage is done.

There’s a beat of silence that’s louder than any cruel thing they’ve ever said to each other.

“ _I hate you,”_ she spits out the words like nothing has ever been truer in her life.

Yeah, he hates himself, too.

“Go to your room,” he says, numb, voice sore from screaming, he turns his back to her before he can watch her stomp up the stairs.

The door slams.

He drapes a ratty blanket over his mother and tries to make himself comfortable on the sofa adjacent to her, shielding his face with his forearm.

 *

Octavia isn’t in her room when he wakes up.

He runs outside and realizes her bike isn’t in the shed next his, like usual. He curses, yanking his down off the rack, and peddles it down the street, until he finds the house he’s looking for. He scrambles up the steps, pounding on the door.

A woman he recognizes from Octavia’s soccer games peeks out the window and frowns at the sight of him, hurrying to unlock the chain. “Bellamy? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Please, I can’t—” He struggles between breaths. “I can’t find my sister, is she here?”

“The girls said your mother—” She hesitates when she steps outside and catches sight of the SUV in Bellamy’s driveway. “They never left?”

He shakes his head. “My mom’s drunk. She’s not—Octavia’s bike is gone and I don’t know—” A look of panic quickly replaces the confusion on her face. His chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He’s not sure if she hears him.

 *

The Police find Octavia Blake walking down the sidewalk next to the park about two miles from home. Her bike isn’t with her, but her helmet is still on. There are bruises down her arms and scrapes on her knees.

The other girl—her _friend—_

She’s just gone.

*

Octavia doesn’t talk about that night, not with him at least. She must’ve said enough to the right people, because there’s a warrant out for at least one man believed to be involved.

*

Aurora loses her parental rights a few months into the rigorous mandatory social worker visits after Charlotte goes missing.

She cries and begs and tells them she _loves_ them.

Octavia hides behind him, clutching his waist.

Bellamy says nothing.

*

He’s not sure why he took the shoe box, honestly. At least that’s what he tells himself.

He thinks about the letter sometimes.

He thinks about the things he wanted to say to his mom, but didn’t.

His pencil hovers of his history homework. He’s supposed to be writing an essay, not thinking about—

He hurls the hardcover book so hard it dents the _clean_ cream colored wall he is so fucking tired of looking at.

*

Two arrests are made.

Shumway and Dax.

Dax and Shumway.

_Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte._

What would he have done if—

The door creaks open and Bellamy changes the channel to some bizarre anime cooking show the moment his sister steps foot into their shared bedroom, courtesy of their _third_ temporary foster home.

But at least they’re together.

“What were you watching?” she mumbles sleepily, crawling into bed with him and snuggling into his side. Her hair’s still wet from her bath and it seeps through the fabric and the holes in his shirt.

“Nothing important,” he replies easy. Octavia tilts her chin up and looks at him, disbelieving.

She sighs. “You know I hear things at school, right? I’m not stupid.”

His grip on her tightens and he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to upset you.”

There’s a pause. And then, “I’m okay, Bell.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“You can ask,” she tries again.

He swallows hard and counts the seconds between their heartbeats. “Did they . . .” he trails off.

“No,” she says with more fierceness than he’s heard from her in _months_.

He waits.

“I was on my bike,” she whispers. “I thought she was right behind me, but—maybe they said something to her, I don’t know. When I saw them grab her, I screamed, but I didn’t stop. I lost control down the hill and fell, but _I didn’t stop_.” She chokes on a sob and he squeezes her tighter. “I don’t even know if they were following me,” she murmurs low. “I never looked back _._ ”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says with conviction. “You couldn’t have helped her, O.”

“Bellamy,” she says, soft, but the words left unsaid weigh heavy on his chest.

“It’s not our fault,” he says after her breaths even out and he’s sure she’s fast asleep.

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

*

Gina Martin is a sophomore in high school, a year ahead of him, and sleeps in the room next to his, and across from someone named, Murphy, _like that’s even a real name._

“Says you, Bellamia,” he sneers back at him and slams the door in his face.

*

If he wakes up early enough he gets to pretend he’s not staring at Gina’s exposed thighs in her sleep shorts.

Unfortunately, Murphy learns this too, and doesn’t have the class to hide it. Although she seems unaffected, Bellamy believes he is fully capable of kicking his ass, if need be, and tries conveying this message via clenched fist and intimidating eye gestures.

Octavia is looking less and less impressed with them these days.

*

“You ever going to man up and kiss me, Blake?” she says, casual skimming through his collection of books, moments after teasing him for owning three copies of _The Iliad._

He nearly chokes on the soda tab he’s chewing on and gawks at her.

She smirks and raises a brow.

Something tingles low in his belly and his cheeks are on probably on fire and he’s definitely the world’s biggest idiot if he doesn’t get off his ass right this second and—

“Ew. No, being told to man up contributes to male toxicimity.”

He blinks and his sister is standing in front of him like she materialized out of nowhere and he has half the mind to shove her in their dirty laundry hamper.

Gina just laughs--this soft, carefree sound that fills the air and his lungs. She’s so freaking pretty he can’t _breathe._

Maybe it’s asthma. That could be a thing.

“I think you mean male _toxicity_ ,” she says, fond.

“Oh. Yeah, that too,” she agrees, unfazed.

“Who the fuck told you that?” Bellamy blurts before he can think better of it.

Gina flicks his foot and mouths, “ _be nice._ ”

“Tumblr,” Octavia deadpans. And then as an afterthought, “I follow Murphy’s blog.”

“ _Get. Out._ ”

*

Gina’s skin is softer than his bed sheets and she smells like tangerines.

She _tastes_ like them, too.

*

“So,” Octavia says, casual, sucking on sour punch straws.  “Do you guys do it like _discovery channel style_?”

“What,” he says, flat, and stills his girlfriend’s fingers on his knee under the dining table.

“You know,” Octavia whispers. “ _s-e-x._ ”

Gina muffles her laugh in his shoulder.

“No, Octavia! Jesus, where are you getting this shit?”

“Snapchat.”

He blinks.

“You don’t even own a phone.”

She hums, noncommittal and shrugs, skipping off to their room.

He looks up to the ceiling. “Must you torment me?” he asks no one.

*

It’s Sunday and it’s raining outside and Bellamy has distinctly unmovable plans to do absolutely nothing other than cuddle his girlfriend and ignore his sister.

Of course that’s when Gina finds out she has a distant aunt in Mount Weather who wants to take her two hours away and effectively ruin the temporary happiness he was just starting to think he could get used to.

Murphy snorts. “Well, aren’t you the lucky duck.”

Bellamy suddenly remembers he has a test he needs to study for at the library for the next . . .

Inconceivable future.

*

The night before she leaves she makes out with him in her room, until his lips are raw, swollen, and burn like the ache in his chest.

Then she dumps him.

*

_**Gina,** _

_I wish you loved me like I loved you._

He sighs, crossing out the sentence, still visible under the blue ink that stains his fingers.

_**I miss you.** _

He thinks he should have more to say, but it’s mostly just different variations of pretty much exactly that, and he’s not sure if any of it is worth the effort writing down.

“What are you doing?”

He jumps, scrambling to close his notebook.

“Nothing,” he says, bright. _Too_ bright. Murphy’s eyes narrow.

He switches tactics.

“What do you want, _John_?”

He lifts one shoulder and leans against the door. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t drowning in your tears.”

He grabs the first thing he can find on the floor (which happens to be a dirty pair of boxers) and tosses them at his face.

*

Bellamy and Octavia Blake have lunch with Professor Kane on the third of August. It’s humid and gross and the eggs he ordered taste like rubber.

It’s approximately four days later that he asks if they would like to be adopted.

By him.

Specifically.

“Why?” Bellamy asks the same time Octavia demands to know, “Are you on hard drugs?”

Kane smiles, amused.

“I find your candor refreshing,” he says, mild. And then, “I like you. I think you deserve more than what you’re being offered now. I’d like to provide that for you.”

Bellamy squints at him. “We’re not the only ones who deserve it. And no, offense but we don’t _know_ you.”

He winces when Octavia kicks his ankle under the table.

Professor Kane pretends not to notice.

“I understand this is a difficult decision. Take all the time you need." There's a pause. "But might I just say, the longer you stay here, the higher chances are that the next place you go, you won’t be going there _together_.”

Bellamy spends the next fifteen minutes weighing the options of punching him in the throat.

With a butter knife.

*

Octavia thinks she convinces him, but Bellamy stands by the fact that he already made up his mind.

There’s just one condition.

“ _Murphy_? Murphy was your one condition?” Octavia says in a way that he thinks is supposed to sound appalled, but really she’s delighted.

He’s not entirely okay with whatever weird friendship they’ve found in each other.

“Be thankful he refused to actually be _adopted_. Then you’d have to start calling him, big brother number two.”

She barks out a laugh and Bellamy freezes at the sound, staring after her even as she disappears down the hall.

*

 _Dear Mom,_ he writes, then changes his mind.

 _Mother,_ he tries, but that doesn't seem to fit either.

_**Aurora,** _

_**If there was a way Octavia and I could exist without you, I'd take it.** _

_**I think about what our lives would have been like if someone could have took us in before you poisoned us with all your bullshit.** _

_**When I believed good people like Gina still existed without an expiration date to walk out of her lives.** _

He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. He’s not _mad_ at Gina—he just.

He wishes it wasn’t so easy for her to be happy about leaving them.

He’s a fucking idiot, basically.

_*_

“Murphy’s right. Daddy Kane is rich as fuck,” Octavia declares.

Bellamy drops his box of books on his foot and hollers out in pain, and follows it up by cursing at her for _cursing_ , which okay, he’s aware it’s a problem.

She raises a brow and he glowers at her.

“You’re _eleven_.”

“Old enough to be a child bride,” she concludes, just as Murphy rounds the corner of the moving truck, guffaws and pats her on the head.

“Little Blake, stealing my sense of humor. I’m _so_ proud.”

Bellamy blinks at them, opens and closes his mouth a few times before he announces, “I’m telling Kane not to give you anything with internet access _and_ no more talking to Murphy unsupervised.”

Murphy pulls a cigarette out of his back pocket and shrugs.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, oh-kay,” she says in a way that sounds a lot, _good luck with that, dumbass._

Like he needs it.

Twenty minutes later, Octavia is proudly wearing a _Burger King_ Crown, sliding through the halls with her socks on, headphones in, holding an iPod in one hand, and a rope made out of bed sheets in the other, while Murphy holds the opposite end and runs as fast as he can, dragging her through the entirety of the house, screaming, “All shall fear Queen Bugereina!”

Bellamy takes it upon himself to be in a decidedly sour mood for the rest of the—

_Wait._

Is that an Xbox?

*

**_Aurora,_ **

**_I think you’re a liar. I don’t think you ever loved anything as much as you loved dad and he still wasn’t enough for you._ **

He pauses, chewing the tip of the eraser.

**_But somehow out of all that, came Octavia._ **

**_So, I guess maybe I should thank you?_ **

**_You gave me the one person in this world I could love until it kills me and never wish it any different._ **

**_I think that’s how you were supposed to love us._ **

~~_Why didn’t you?_ ~~

_*_

There’s an estimate of four different computers in the house (mansion) and _at least_ two kinds of tablets that he is aware of, and television sets appear to pop up at random.

_Fucking rich people._

*

Bellamy has his own bathroom

Like _inside_ his bedroom, or attached to it, at least.

He’s never been more excited about anything, until he notices the door at the other end, and just when he’s about to lock it, it swings open revealing John Murphy, and he has so many regrets leading up to this moment.

He curls his lips. “Big Blake,” he pauses to survey him in a dramatic fashion. “Gonna finally live up to the nickname?”

He pretends to think it over.

Then he pushes him the tub and turns the water on _freezing_.

Murphy screams like a girl.

“That’s sexist!”

*

He’s more upset than he wants to admit about the empty space in his bed where Octavia used to feel safe.

He leaves his door cracked just in case.

*

_No._

Absolutely not.

He _refuses_ to let Octavia run around the neighborhood by herself. He doesn’t care what bullshit statistics Kane throws at him, and he‘s certainly not going to change his mind about it.

And that’s pretty much how he ends up being the wolf pack leader to a bunch of preteens with Murphy serving as the disobedient lackey he never wanted.

 *

Octavia starts going through friends like she’s shopping for the _best_ of the best, and somehow winds up picking the shy Asian kid with glasses who doesn’t talk enough, and the _growth_ attached him with goggles on his head, a  _science kit_ in his backpack, and talks far _too_ much.

Monty and Jasper.

Or as Murphy likes to call them, _thing one_ and _thing two_.

A few others come and go, but honestly he prefers to avoid learning their names if they’re not going to stick around long anyways.

He’s pretty sure all Murphy has to do is sneer in their direction and they scatter like roaches.

He doesn’t mind, as long as Octavia is happy and _safe._

*

Sometimes he forgets that he’s basically an adult compared to the kids he spends an absurd amount of time with.

Bellamy doesn’t really have friends anymore—he mostly just babysits, even though O continues to _insist_ his presence is unnecessary.

Mostly, she just calls him her _loser loner brother_.

She’s not _wrong._

He’s pretty sure Murphy is more popular than him at this point.

Anyways, all things considered, it’s probably inadvisable threaten bodily harm to a fifth grader just because they made his sister _cry._

He’s not entirely sure what happened _exactly_ , but one minute they’re playing tag football in the back yard of some more crazy-rich-white neighbors, (which Bellamy was already in a pissy mood about, because of the political signs in the front yard) and then the next thing he knows, this little dweeb knocking his sister in dirt.

“Atom!” Octavia shouts, in warning he thinks, but it’s too late.

Bellamy’s already got the collar of his shirt in his grasp, the kid's feet dangling in the air, fist raised for the punch, when someone beats him to it.

Only not in the way he expects, because _Bellamy_ ends up being the one knocked on the ground with the bloody nose.

“Holy balls,” he croaks, and then it’s light out.

 *

Opening his eyes, he’s mildly aware of his head being the size of a balloon, and that he's possibly floating in space, but also his face is _cold_.

And then he sees the prettiest little thing hovering above him with sun in her hair and the ocean in her eyes looking like all the fairy tales he used to read his baby sister. There’s a brief second where he thinks he’s dead, but then she’s pressing the coldness to his face _harder_ , looking entirely displeased with his existence as a human.

He blinks and half expects the girl to disappear, but his vision clears and yeah, she looks pissed.

He groans and then coughs. “What the fuck happened?”

“You got beat up by a girl,” he hears Octavia say, chipper.

And that’s when he notices the shadow to his left, looking over to see her and Murphy, trying not to laugh with a phone shining bright in Bellamy's face, which is just _perfect_ , because it’s only a matter of time before he’s an Instagram star.

But then, there’s the more pressing matter of his attacker looking at him like she might be considering punching him again.

“Hi,” he says, dry.

Her eyes widen like she didn’t expect him to actually speak to her and she looks like she’s about to do something horribly awkward, like _wave_.

He raises a brow and quirks his mouth in a way that he hopes looks cocky and cool in equal measure. “Do you mind letting me up, Princess?”

Apparently, it’s not the right thing to say, because she scoffs and drops the ice on his head.

_Rude._

“Do _you_ mind not being a big fat bully?”

He squints at her. “Excuse me?”

“We’re in high school,” she says, slow. “What is it, Blake? You think beating up little kids is going to get you noticed by all the girls and boys?”

He takes a second to process the fact that this chick somehow knows his name and apparently goes to the same school he does, but also—

“Worked with you didn’t it?” he counters, brushing the dirt off his knees.

Her mouth falls open and cheeks get all pink, then there's this familiar feeling of want pooling in his stomach that he’s been going out of his way to avoid feeling since Gina.

But that doesn’t stop him from holding out his hand, ignoring the unimpressed looks Murphy and Octavia shoot him. “So, you know my name. It’s only fair I get yours, right?”

She huffs, and when she glares at him it feels like his skin is melting off.

“Or do you prefer, Princess?”

“ _Clarke,”_ she snaps, but still makes no move to grab his outstretched palm, so he lets it drop to his side. “We have Algebra together,” she continues. “With Indra.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, stupidly, and yeah, maybe he is an asshole. “Uh—”

“Wow, Bell.” Octavia cuts in. “You’re _so_ smooth.”

“Yeah, it’s wonder why he sits by himself at lunch,” Murphy remarks, helpfully.

Bellamy contemplates twisting John's nipples off, when Clarke softens and says, quiet, “You eat alone?”

“ _What._ ”

“Don’t tell me that’s working for you,” Murphy says, appalled by the mere thought that he could be the reason Bellamy winds up making his first friend that’s not the result of forced proximity.

Clarke shrugs, “I just think it’s kind of sad.”

“It’s a lifestyle choice,” Bellamy deadpans, because he refuses to let the pretty girl pity him.

He likes being alone.

It’s quiet.

*

Clarke likes peanut butter sandwiches with apples, salt & vinegar chips in obnoxious crinkly bags, and asking him how his day is going, with a list of follow up questions, until they’re having an actual conversation, much to Bellamy’s dismay.

“Your nose looks better,” she notes.

“What?” he says, amused despite his best efforts. “And it didn’t look good _before_ you punched me?”

She giggles.

There’s a mole above her lip that Bellamy is pointedly _not_ staring at.

“I like you,” she declares, smiling.

Bellamy swallows. “Thanks, uh—I like you too.”

*

Bellamy _really_ likes Clarke Griffin.

He likes her enough to let her drag him to a party and play spin-the-bottle with their classmates, who apparently think he’s some kind of drug dealer, going off the number of times he’s been asked if he has any weed since he walked through the door.

His heart speeds up when her knee bumps his during his turn, and he hopes it lands on her.

Clarke kisses like she speaks, no hesitation, the center of attention, soft and biting and sweet.

Which is probably why Lexa Woods asks her to homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING(S): Implied child sexual abuse/kidnapping (it's only implied/referenced, absolutely zero inappropriate details given that do not pertain to the story line).


	2. kiss you heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat* 
> 
> Ahem. Hi. Hello. I'm back for the ride. Glad you could join me.
> 
> I did change the title, because I felt that this one fit more and I do what want.
> 
> *WARNINGS IN THE END NOTES*

The first thought that crosses Bellamy’s mind when he receives several short, cryptic texts from Murphy instructing him to meet them under the home-side bleachers after school, is that they need help burying a body.

He’s kidding himself, mostly.

But also, it’s Murphy and _Cage_ —who only ever makes an effort to communicate with Bellamy through a series of grunts, snickering every time Bellamy raises his hand in Pike’s class, like he’s above calling out the historical inaccuracies in their white-washed American history books ( _like,_ _what the fuck, no he isn’t_ ) and routinely throws _actual_ spitballs at their peers, which Bellamy firmly believed prior to this, only ever happened in those shitty _Disney Channel_ “sitcoms” Octavia binges out on every night.

Of course he takes it a step further, upgrading to _TeenNick_ villain, by also the type of guy who hides in the back corner of the library, blowing smoke out the window, flicking ashes onto the floor, and tossing cigarette buds out in courtyard. All while the librarian, Ms. Costia Rosa, pretends not to notice, because Cage’s father is some bigtime lawyer for corrupt politicians and regularly donates money to Arcadia High.

As if all of _that_ wasn’t enough to stamp the label, _entitled fuckboy_ , on his oversized forehead, some of his other habits include showing off his sexts to his locker room buddies (aka child porn, because the girls are, like, _sixteen_ ) and gluing his beady eyes on every female ass within ten feet of him (including Clarke’s) with absolutely _zero_ discreetness or shame when he gets caught.

So, it’s fair to say that Bellamy is not too fond of Cage Wallace, to put it lightly.

To put it _bluntly_ , he’s come to the conclusion that Cage is a sentient walking pile of garbage, in desperate need of getting his teeth knocked down his throat until he chokes.

Murphy keeps insisting his not _that_ bad, which completely baffles Bellamy considering how much Murphy generally loathes everyone, but especially rich, white, sexists, asshats.

Honestly, he has no idea what the fuck is going on with him lately. He’s been even dickish than usual, but especially to Kane.

It’s almost like Murphy’s trying to see how far he can push his buttons, and Bellamy doesn’t know or trust Kane enough yet to feel confident one of the consequences won’t be Murphy getting placed with another family, since he is _still_ refusing to be adopted.

 **the cockroach:** come alone

 **the cockroach:** tell no one

And then, before he can even finish frantically typing a response, his phone beeps, _again._

 **the cockroach:** DONT BE A DIPSHIT

 **Me:** _What the fuck are you on about?_

 **the cockroach:** like you weren’t  about to go run your mouth to our friendly neighborhood princess ????

 **Me:** _Eat my ass, John._

 **the cockroach:** ask nicely bellamia

As much as he hates to prove Murphy right, Bellamy has no one to complain to other than Clarke.

They’ve gotten rather close in the few weeks that they’ve been friendly- _ish_ —two weeks since she’s been sitting with him at lunch—eighteen days since she punched him in the face.

Murphy likes to remind him of this fact every time Bellamy warns him to choose his companions wisely.

_“Your new best friend broke your face, dude.”_

_“That’s a gross over-exaggeration.”_

All in all, clearly, Bellamy is rather lacking in the friend department, and has no place lecturing anyone, or so John would say.

Meaning Clarke is basically his only friend ( _Murphy does not count_ ), and that is definitely for lack of trying, because people generally suck.

Clarke has a lot of friends though, or _acquaintances_ , at least. She likes being busy to a point where she forgets how to breathe normal, or feed herself on occasion, so he’s not sure how she makes time for _anyone_ outside of school functions. It still shocks Bellamy that she finds time to spend with him and O regularly, let alone seems to prefer being with them over most—except for _maybe_ Lexa.

(Bellamy wouldn’t actually know, since whenever he casually drops Lexa’s name, she gets all shy and antsy and quickly changes the subject.)

Clarke’s also involved in the art club, draws weekly comics for the school newspaper, and is the head of the decoration committee. So, he always finds her surrounded by bright, smiling faces.

She’s magnetic that way, so much so he’s not sure how he didn’t notice her sooner.

He imagines it’s impossible to _not_ like Clarke, as far as he can tell—at least in person.

Some girls seem to be exceptionally bitter about her behind her back. Not that Bellamy listens much to gossip, but he catches her name being whispered in the hall sometimes, and it’s not like he can exactly un-hear how Roma and Bree supposedly caught her sucking in her stomach “fat” and stuffing her bra with tissues in the girl’s locker room.

It’s complete bullshit if you ask him. Not that anyone should, because he pointedly goes out of his way to avoid becoming the perverted little shit his raging hormones try to turn him into.

He isn’t a slimy rodent like, _Cage._

But that’s not to say her boobs have gone unnoticed by him either.

He deals with it mostly by solving complex algebra in his head whenever Clarke decides to wear low cut navy blue Henley she’s so fond of, or curls her hair so it bounces just below her shoulders, _or_ wears shiny pink lip gloss that tastes like strawberries, if memory serves.

They haven’t talked about the brief kiss they shared the weekend before, in the midst of the circle of idiots whistling and cheering, significantly less obnoxiously than her fourth or fifth turn when the bottle landed on Lexa.

They haven’t really discussed the homecoming dance either, mostly because Bellamy is still waiting for Clarke to bring up who she’s going with, since he only knows she’s already been asked, because he overheard Lexa and Clarke talking through the sliding screen door of Wells Jaha’s porch last Saturday night.

He’s trying not to do _the big brother thing_ and pry, or _jealous boyfriend thing_ and pout, because he’s very obviously not either of those to her.

They are _friends,_ who do friend things, like text each other memes and viciously argue over the best shows to watch on _Netflix,_ or (in most recent developments) complain about John Murphy.

The point is Bellamy has everything completely under control.

*

“I think Murphy and Cage committed a felony.”

Well, except for _that._

“Good thing Dante Wallace is a criminal lawyer,” Clarke quips back, digging her books out of her locker. “Ha! Get it? _Criminal_ lawyer.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Sorry, are we not joking?” she clarifies, raising her left brow in a way that he is sure she must’ve spent hours perfecting in a mirror.

He sighs, scrubbing his palm over his face. “I don’t know. Cage is into a lot of dumb shit and gets away with it because Dante protects him regardless.”

“You don’t think Kane would protect Murphy?”

“Not if he’s _wrong_.”

She smiles, wryly. “Well, that’s called good parenting.”

“Obviously, but . . .”

“But?” she persists, following in down the hall, bumping his shoulder with hers. When she’s this close it’s easy to catch a whiff of whatever shampoo or perfume she uses—something flowery and sweet.

_Head out of your ass, Blake._

“What if he decides Murphy would be better off somewhere else? I know he can be a bit much, but he’s—”

“He’s yours,” Clarke finishes, easy.

Bellamy hesitates. He never thought of it in those words. “What?”

“He belongs with you and Octavia,” she says, soft, shrugging. “And you guys belong with Kane now. You’re a package deal. He wouldn’t have agreed to take Murphy in if he didn’t know that.”

“But Murphy is only being fostered, so he could still—”

“That’s Murphy’s choice, Bell. Not Kane’s. He wouldn’t give up on him like that.”

He wants to believe her but— “How can you be so sure?”

“Just a feeling.”

He snorts. “Feelings aren’t always reliable sources of information, princess.”

“Maybe not alone, but I think people’s actions have more value when they’re _consistent_. Has Kane done anything to make you think he would kick Murphy to the curb?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it before he answers. “No,” he admits.

“Then having a little hope wouldn’t hurt.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand. Her skin is warm and _soft_. Bellamy resists lacing their fingers together to keep her there.

“Thanks, Clarke.”

“Anytime, Bell,” she says, and he actually believes she means it. So, maybe be hope isn’t _so_ bad.” Now let’s go kick that cockroach’s ass.”

He startles at that. “ _What?_ ”

“Just because I don’t think Kane would leave him behind, doesn’t mean he won’t get into serious trouble if he keeps it up. Better if it comes from _us_ than Kane, or like, the cops, right? Does ‘Tavia have a way home?”

“She’s taking the bus to Jasper’s, Kane’s picking her up later,” he blurts out. “And, shit, yeah, you’re telling me. But don’t you have . . .” he trails off and Clarke just gives him a pointed stare to continue. He sighs. “I don’t know— _things_ to do?”

“Like what?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

“Lexa’s been driving you to Grounder’s Coffee Shop all week after school,” he remarks, blinking at her.

She turns away from him, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, we’ve been preparing stuff for the dance. I’m sure we can reschedule.”

“ _Sure_ ,” he agrees, casual. “But you know you don’t _have_ to. And Murphy’s with Dax right now anyways, it might be best if you stay out of it.”

She bristles. “Oh, like _you’re_ going to stay out of it then?”

“Obviously not, but this is my problem, not yours, princ—”

She cuts him off. “You know we’re friends right?”

Yes. _Of course_ he knows this. He reminds himself daily.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“There are not buts, Blake. I care about you. Your problems are _mine_.”

“Clarke,” he sighs.

“No,” she snaps, blocking his path, forcing him to look at her. As if he could ever look away with her blue eyes holding him in place, keeping everything centered. “ _You. Are. Not. Alone._ ” She pokes his chest with every word. “So stop acting like it!”

He swallows hard, ducking his head before he does something incredibly stupid and inadvisable with her looking at him like that.

“Okay,” he says, slow, biting his lip. “Together, then?”

Her face softens and the corner of her lips turns up. “Together.”

He nods leading the way outside, ignoring the few students still trailing behind giving them conspiratory glances. He wonders if Clarke worries about what Lexa would think of her ditching to be with him.

“You’re better at breaking noses anyways,” he adds. She throws her head back and laughs, bright and beautiful.

It’s easy to stop giving a fuck about what anyone else thinks.

*

Murphy and Cage apparently decided it was a good idea to climb to the top of the bleachers to smoke pot, instead of being discreet, like most normal, over-achieving delinquents.

“Did you seriously ask me to come out here so we could get high on school property?”

Bellamy vaguely wonders if this is why everyone and their brother thinks he’s dealing this shit.

He’s had his fair share, sure. But, like, in someone’s basement when their parents aren’t home, not in the middle of broad daylight.

And he’s certainly not _selling_ it.

“I’ve done worse in broom closets,” Murphy says, dry, before looking up and spotting Clarke over his shoulder. “Oh, great. Princess buzzkill has arrived to spoil our fun.”

“I thought you told him to leave her royal highness on her throne,” Cage sneers, before looking her up and down like she’s completely naked and not wearing faded blue jeans and old t-shirt. She’s lovely, of course, but not a fucking piece of meat.

Bellamy’s fist clenches, and he ignores Clarke’s small huff, whispering, in his ear, _you started all these stupid monarchial nicknames you know?_

“Guess I’m not good at taking orders,” Bellamy says, surprisingly calm.

Of course that’s ruined when Cage chuckles, replying, “Unless they’re coming her lips. I wonder what else that pretty mouth can get you to do?”

Clarke steps in front of him and Murphy punches Cage in the arm, before Bellamy can launch himself on top of both of them.

“What the fuck, man?” Cage hisses.

“I told you to cut that shit out,” Murphy snaps. “Girls don’t want to hear you talking about them like that, and neither do I.”

Cage narrows his eyes, taking another hit, before blowing it Murphy’s face. “No need to get your panties in a twist about it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude, party’s over,” Murphy declares, hopping off the bench and pushing past the two of them on the stairs. “Are we walking home, or what?”

“Well that was easier than I thought,” Clarke mutters just when Cage reaches into his bag pulling out a bottle of something that makes her gasp.

_She can’t seriously be surprised the guy walks around with liquor in his backpack._

She snatches it out of his hands. “Where did you get this?”

Cage smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“What is it?” Bellamy asks her, figuring she’d tell him before he does.

“This bottle’s worth thousands,” she tells him, eyes wide.

Bellamy’s first reaction is to laugh; because there’s no way alcohol could be worth that much, right?

_Right?_

“I like a girl that knows her bourbon,” Cage says, giving her a toothy grin.

“I like a boy who knows when to keep his mouth shut,” Clarke growls back at him. “This is stolen.”

“Let it go, Clarke,” Murphy calls.

“Of course, it’s stolen. We’re underage, sweetheart. Where else would I have gotten it?” Cage says, smug as ever.

“It’s probably just from his dad Clarke, who cares?” Bellamy reminds her. “Dante sure won’t.”

“I care, because he tried dragging you and Murphy into it. What if you all got caught? What he blamed it on _you_?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Murphy groans. “Can you stop being so overdramatic? He’s not a snitch.”

“I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer than you John, don’t be an idiot!” she shouts, glaring at them both. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? And daddy Dante made a successful career out of pinning crap on _everyone but_ the guilty party right in front of him.”

“I think you’re the one that needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.” Cage glowers, hovering over her.

“Back off,” Bellamy barks, tugging Clarke behind him.

“You’re not leaving with _that_ ,” Cage sneers, pointing to the bottle still in her grasp.

“Take it,” she snaps, shoving it at his chest. “And leave my friends out of your bullshit.”

“Or what?” he leers. “Like there’s anything you can do to stop me.”

“You’re not the only one with connections, jerk.”

“Are you actually trying to threaten me right now?”

“Clarke, stop,” Bellamy mutters, gripping her closer. “He has what he wants, let’s just go.”

“Oh that’s right. The Princess has an _in_ with the mayor’s son, doesn’t she? I wonder how the city would feel knowing Wells Jaha’s bestest little girlfriend is dipping her toes in the other side of the dating pool these days?”

Clarke stiffens beneath Bellamy’s hold on her and he squeezes her tighter.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she whispers, dangerously low.

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, grinning down at her. “I doubt Thelonious would be too thrilled for his right-wing voters to find out his son is holding hands with a dyke.”

There’s a horrible second before he hears Clarke suck in a shaky breath, and he’s terrified she might just breakdown in tears.

“Oh, fuck,” Murphy hisses behind them, when Bellamy throws himself in the middle of Cage and Clarke, jerking the bottle of _liquid gold_ out his greasy palms, yanking out the cork topper, and pouring the entirety of its contents at Cage’s feet.

Cage gapes at him as he throws the glass bottle over the railing and marches back towards a very shocked, glassy-eyed Clarke Griffin.

“We’re done here,” Bellamy says, final, ignoring Cage’s outraged cries behind them. “Enjoy your pity party, fuckwad!”

*

They make it about a block before Clarke finally says something, in between Murphy freaking out about Cage possibly murdering them all in their sleep.

“You’re fucking insane,” he says again, although there’s a slight awe in his voice that makes Bellamy think he’s strangely impressed with him for just screwing over his drug dealer buddy and potentially making everything significantly _worse._

“Holy crap,” Clarke mutters suddenly, and Bellamy and Murphy both pause to look at her.

“Are you okay?” Bellamy asks, worrying his lip.

She blinks up at him with a look he can’t quite decipher, until she bursts out in uncontrollable laughter. “ _Am I okay?_ Are you kidding? I’m freaking fantastic!”

“Oh, well that’s just perfect,” Murphy drawls. “You’ve both gone entirely bonkers. Good thing Kane’s a certified psychiatrist.”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Bellamy snaps.

“That was—Bellamy, that was awesome! Did you see his face? He looked like he was two seconds away from shitting his pants.”

“Yes, yes,” Murphy says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s congratulate the idiot that very well may have just started a war we can’t finish.”

Bellamy sighs, turning his attention towards him. “And you call _her_ over-dramatic.”

He shrugs. “I never said I wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

Before Bellamy can make snarky comment back, Clarke launches herself at his chest, burying her face in his neck, stunning him into silence.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pressing her lips to his jaw. His cheeks warm at the contact and he clears his throat awkwardly, before he has the sense to hug her back.

“Anytime, princess.”

“Well, isn’t this sweet,” Murphy says, scowling at them both. “The two of should write eachother’s epitaph.”

Clarke giggles, pulling back from Bellamy sooner than he would’ve hoped for. “And who will write yours?”

“Here lies John Murphy,” Bellamy announces, “the _cockiest_ of all cockroaches.”

He rolls his eyes. “Here lies Bellamy Blake, the king of insufferable morons.”

“Beloved brother,” Clarke chimes in, linking their arms together.

“Pretty sure Octavia would say _annoying and overbearing._ ”

“Loyal friend,” Clarke continues.

“Maybe to _you._ ”

“Fuck off, Murphy,” Bellamy says. “Quit pretending you weren’t about to knock his lights out yourself.”

“His face wasn’t worth thousands of dollars,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Unless you got sued,” Clarke quips. “That would’ve sucked. His parents are nasty lawyers.”

“Here lies Clarke Griffin,” Murphy says, “princess know-it-all, truth-teller of the painfully obvious.”

“What would you say?” she asks, ignoring Murphy, to peer up at Bellamy. His heart picks up pace.

“Oh, um—I don’t know.”

“Come on,” she insists.

“I don’t spend much time thinking about what I’d put on your headstone, Clarke.”

“Oh, but you’ve put plenty of thought into mine?” Murphy cracks.

He sighs. “I dream of the day.”

“Shut up, you two.”

“He started it,” Murphy says, sour.

“Bell-a-my,” Clarke sing-songs.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’d say—here lies Clarke Griffin, homecoming princess—”

“ _Queen_ ,” she corrects. “And the winner hasn’t been announced yet, plus I’m sophomore—sophomores never get it.”

“First of her kind,” he carries on, smirking when she rolls her eyes. “Has a mean right-hook,” He hesitates for moment and then, “totally worth the dying for.”

*

Bellamy lasts about four days, before breaking down Murphy’s door attached to their joint bathroom.

“I am not fixing that,” he says, flat, blinking up at him where he’s laid out on his stomach in just his boxer-shorts, reading _Watchmen_ for the umpteenth time _._

“We need to talk.”

“Sounds ominous,” he replies, turning the page.

He sighs, sitting on the corner of his bed. “You need to stop being a dick and skipping class to get high, and sneaking out to do—whatever it is that you’re doing every other night. This isn’t like where we were before. You can’t keep just—”

“Newsflash Blake, this is _exactly_ like where we were before—just another good deed to someone who happens to be significantly more privileged in the money department than the last.”

“This is _different_ ,” Bellamy stresses. “Kane isn’t just another pit stop. This is our home.”

“For you and Octavia, you mean.”

“It is for you too! Just because you’re too stubborn to—”

“Do you think I’m dim? You really think I don’t know that Kane only wanted the two of you? But you just couldn’t let it go, could you Blake? I’m not your fucking charity case, all right! And I’m sure as fuck not your brother, so—”                                                                  

“That’s not what this is and you know it!”

“Bullshit!” he spits. “You never cared about what I did on my own time before we got here. The only reason you do now, is because you’re scared Daddy Kane is going to decide _you’re_ not the missing piece he was looking for to fill in the vast empty black hole in his pathetic life. Well, guess what? You’re abandonment issues are not my damn problem.”

“ _My_ abandonment issues?” He scoffs. “You can’t be serious? You’re the one who can’t fathom for a single second that someone might actually give a shit about you!” he accuses.

“WHY WOULD THEY?"

He opens and shuts his mouth, dumbstruck. “ _What?_ ”

Murphy’s sitting up now, bear chest heaving across from him, eyes wider than he’s ever seen them. He’s never looked more like a cornered animal. He blinks, shaking his head. “Why would they?” he repeats, calmer. “I’ve never given anyone a reason to.”

“Yes, you have,” he argues.

“No. I _really_ haven’t, Blake. You said it yourself; I’m a dick.”

“I like dicks,” he says without thinking and regrets it immediately.

“Well,” Murphy drawls, smirking. “This conversation took a turn.”

“Shut up. You know what I meant.” He rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything other than _exist_ , Murphy. It just so happens that the state of your existence in my life and Octavia’s really fucking matters to us. And it matters to Kane. _You_ _matter_. Even when you’re being an annoying, dick-ish, prick.”

 _Cockroach_ , Murphy supplies under his breath.

“We all still want you here," Bellamy asserts, crossing his arms.

He thinks it over, shifting and narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

He hesitates. “I think—we don’t get to choose where we come from, but we get to decide where we stay, eventually. We make that choice, you know? And we’re choosing you.” He sighs when Murphy just openly gawks at him. “I’m not saying you have to return the favor or anything.”

He clears his throat, scooting back further on the bed. “You’re not expecting me to hug you or anything now, right?”

Bellamy snorts. “ _God, no._ ”

“Good, this has been—an enlightening _very special episode_. Let’s agree to never do it again.”

“Fine by me,” he grunts, pushing himself up to leave.

“Blake,” Murphy snaps, petulant. He waits for him to continue.

“I just—for what it’s worth, I’ll try to—” He makes a face. “Be the good guy for a change.”

Bellamy fails to hide his grin. “You already are Murphy. Just stop trying to pretend you’re not.”

“Do you always have to get the last word in?” he demands.

Bellamy pretends to think it over. “Yes.”

His lips tighten into a thin line. “I’d like you to leave now.”

“That’s what I was doing before you—”

“No, seriously leave.”

*

Clarke calls Bellamy for the first time the evening before the dance in a _complete_ panic for reasons that have nothing to do with why Bellamy is also panicking. He stupidly answered the phone without bothering to look at the caller ID, promptly choking on the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth when he realized it was her voice on the other end. Because _holy fuck_ , she actually called him, and he’s not entirely sure most high schoolers even know that was still a _thing_ people do.

Honestly, there’s no rational reason for him for him to feel this nervous; it’s not like they don’t talk in person on a regular basis, but something about being cut off from all his other senses of her, relying just on sound, the restless exhales and puffs of air leaving her lips, while he pictures her pacing back and forth in her bedroom; it feels strangely intimate— _dangerous_ even.

“I’m so-so-so stupid,” she hisses, which makes him think she’s worried about her parents eavesdropping. A door shuts and there’s ruffling and squeaking in the background and what sounds like her throwing herself down on the bed in a dramatic fashion—a vision Bellamy needs to not think about, _ever_.

“I need more to go on,” he decides.

She sighs, speaking more freely now, “I haven’t told my parents who I’m going to dance with.”

There’s a significant pause. “You realize that you haven’t actually told _me_ who you’re going to the dance with either, right?”

“Oh!” She gasps, like she genuinely forgot. “Really?”

“Uh—” He coughs. “Yeah?”

“Well,” she falters. “It’s not like you don’t already _know_.”

“True.” He can give her that much. “But it’d be nice to hear it from you, too.”

She’s silent for a second too long and he imagines her bottom lip being pulling in between her teeth, like she always does when she’s nervous.

“Lexa,” she replies, soft enough for it to hurt.

“Okay.” He hold his breath, before finding the nerve to ask, “So why have you not told your parents?”

The silence between them is heavy.

“Clarke?” His heart begins to sink in his chest. “They _do_ know you’re . . .”

“I haven’t actually come out yet,” she blurts in one breath.

“Wait, _what?_ How is that even possible? Everyone at school is running their mouths about—”

“ _Everyone?_ ” she repeats, frantic.

“Well, not everyone,” he admits. “And it’s not anything bad, I swear.”

“Not to _you_ , I’m sure.”

“Clarke, you’re one of the most popular girls in our year. People love you.”

“They love to _talk_ about me,” she corrects, sullen. “And if they run out of things to talk about, they just assume the rest.”

“ _Clarke_.” He frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. “Why haven’t you told your parents?”

“I don’t know.” She sighs, conceding, “Okay that’s a lie. I do sort of _know_ , but also I can’t know what I don’t know, you know?”

“Er—” He really doesn’t.

“I don’t know, Bell!” She cries out, and then inhales deeply before dropping her voice low again. “I don’t know what to come out as,” she whispers.

Oh.

_Oh._

That’s not what he was expecting.

“Shit, Clarke, that’s okay . . .” he trails off thinking. “There’s umbrella terms right? And you can always change your mind. It doesn’t change who you’re, like, attracted to, but it’s up to you what label you want to identify with, right?”

“I guess,” she agrees, but there’s a hitch in her voice, indicating she doesn’t really believe him.

“. . . Is there more?”

Her throat clears. “You know how Lexa and I have been hanging out a lot after school?”

“Hard to miss,” he replies. It comes off drier than he intends it to sound.

“Well,” she continues, wary. “She’s been taking me to this LGBT meet-ups on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and most the people there are on, like, one side of the spectrum.”

“You mean either gay or lesbian?”

“Exactly,” she says, exasperated.

“Okay . . .” He’s not sure he likes where this is heading.

“So, a lot of them have similar stories to mine, like, originally thinking they’re somewhere in the middle and then picking a side.”

_Fuck._

“Have _you_ picked a side?”

“ _No_ ,” she stresses. “But everyone else has.”

“There are plenty of people who don’t ever pick, Clarke,” he reminds her, gentle. “You can like boys and girls and everything in between.”

“I know,” she insists, more frustrated than before. “I _know_ that.”

“Then what are you so scared of?”

“Lexa doesn’t—”she cuts herself off before relenting. “She sort of just assumed that I was a lesbian.”

“And you didn’t correct her?” Bellamy admonishes.

“Well, no! It was like—I don’t know, I just _couldn’t._ There’s all these—” She lets out a groan. “—messed up ideas in her head, because she first came out as bisexual and she blames it all on heteronormativity or some crap, and now it’s like she thinks it’s the same for everyone else.”

“But you know it’s not, Clarke.” She doesn’t answer right away. “ _Right?_ ” he presses.

“I know,” she finally admits. He sighs, relieved.

“But what if—what if it’s the same for me and I’m just too stubborn to realize it on principle? What if I just don’t want to be another example to prove her shitty point?”

He huffs, running his hands threw his tangled hair. “Just—take everyone else’s opinion out of the equation for a sec. What do you feel? That’s what’s important.”

“I’ve always liked boys.” She hesitates. “In sense that they’re somewhat interesting, and _different_ , cute, but also dumb . . . and totally emotionally stunted due to toxic masculinity, like, the majority of the time.”

He snorts. “Fair enough.”

“And . . . a boyfriend sounded nice before, _in theory_. Wells and I—we tried it once. Kissing and stuff, but it wasn’t like how it is with girls. It was harder to—I just didn’t enjoy it, not like he did. It didn’t do much of anything for me. Besides confuse me more than I already was.”

“Well,” Bellamy considers her. “That _could_ indicate you’re just not into boys, _or_ that you’re just not into Wells, particularly.”

 “I think Wells assumed it was the first.”

“We’re not talking about what anyone else thinks, remember?” he chastises.

She laughs at that and Bellamy buries his grin in his pillow.

“Right, so . . .” she trails off.

The pounding in his chest grows louder. So much so, he’s irrational nervous she might actually be able to hear it. “What other boys have you . . .”

“Well,” she interrupts before he finishes the thought. “There was everyone at _that_ party, like Sinclair, and Miller, and of course . . . _you_.”

He swallows. “Right.”

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

“So, how was it?” he asks, for lack of better words. He stutters. “I mean—did you—was it—”

“Sinclair used too much tongue. And Miller was just—it didn’t last long enough for me to really _feel_ it.” He’s quiet while she fumbles over the rest of her words. “You were . . . different.”

"Different," he echoes back.

“Different,” she repeats, quiet, like it’s a secret—like she’s afraid to admit it.

“Um . . ."

“ _Good_ different,” she clarifies.

He sucks in a breath, biting his cheek to stop the idiotic smile on his lips from splitting his face in two. “Yeah? I mean—that’s nice, right?”

She lets out a surprised giggle. “Yeah, Bell. It was nice.”

“So . . .” he cautions.

She lets out a sigh. “I guess I already have my answer then, huh?”

He thinks about her lips slanting over his mouth, the startled gasp when his tongue flicked over hers to steal a taste, fingers sliding into her hair, with his thumb pressing against her jaw to tilt her head up to catch his pace, her chest brushing against his with every intake of breath.

 He coughs to cover up the awkward pause, shaking himself out of his daydreams.

_It’s not about you._

_And besides,_ he thinks, _she still chose Lexa._

“Yeah, probably,” he admits, crossing an arm over his chest to steady his breathing. "But . . . It’s okay if you’re not ready to let everyone know yet, Clarke. Coming out—that’s for _you—_ not anyone else. And that _includes_ Lexa.”

She hums in response. And then adds, casually, like mentioning that it started raining outside. “I kind of love you.”

He drops the phone on his face.

“Fuck.”

“Bellamy?”

“Sorry, I just—slippery piece of shit.”  

“ _What?_ ” she deadpans.

“The _phone_ ,” he specifies, refusing to embarrass himself more.

“Oh,” she says quiet, letting out a soft yawn against her will.

It takes him a moment to muster up the courage to say it back, even if she doesn’t know it’s different for him than it is for her.

_Different._

“I love you too, princess.”

They talk meaninglessly after that, until their voices fade, and their breaths even out, matching the other.

Bellamy’s phone is dead by the time he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING(S): homophobic slurs*
> 
> Side note: I definitely realized while editing this I stole the "criminal" lawyers joke from Saul in Breaking Bad. OoPS.
> 
> Thanks for reading guys!!! I love you. The next chapter will mostly take place at homecoming with a few surprises at the end. Also fluff, and dork Bellamy doing homework in the library, whilst wearing a tux, until Clarke finds him and requests a dance, so there's that.
> 
> Chapter updates WILL be posted every other Saturday or Sunday from here on out, unless I state otherwise, because I'm really trying to get my shit together. I hear productivity is healthy. Sounds fake, but okay.
> 
> > Come say hi to me on [tumblr,](http://rycewritestrash.tumblr.com/) if that sort of thing floats your boat. I also sort of exist on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rycewritestrash)\--so like, I creep on famous people and retweet things. I'm mostly alive on [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/breenah____/) as that crazy cat lady. <


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